


One Hundred Days

by Lady of Prompts (Aethelflaed)



Series: BINGO [11]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), But also, Crowley (Good Omens) Not Going Too Fast, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Happy Ending, Holding Hands, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Prompt Fill, Slow Burn, Soft Crowley (Good Omens), South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Wordcount: 5.000-10.000, eventually, well pretty fast for 6000 year old beings but still
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:22:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27191023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aethelflaed/pseuds/Lady%20of%20Prompts
Summary: They should have discussed it more.Wasn’t that what humans did? Spend weeks and months talking about what sort of home they want, what sort of life, dreaming of what moving in together will be like. Making sure their dreams matched up, their expectations.They didn’t buy cottages – in the middle of a forest, no less, half a mile from the nearest village – without considering questions of…of hobbies, and use of space and…and living arrangements. They certainly didn’t take such a step without…defining their relationships.--Aziraphale only begins to consider the implications of *moving in together* after they've already done it.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: BINGO [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2017241
Comments: 70
Kudos: 255
Collections: Kisses Bingo





	1. The First Fifty Days

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Kisses Bingo. The first chapter's prompt is "Back of the Head Kiss/Knees Brushing Under the Table." The second chapter is "Smiling-too-Hard Kiss/Palm Massage or Tracing."
> 
> (Chapter 1 posted Sunday, Chapter 2 Wednesday)

The first night at the South Downs cottage, Aziraphale cooked dinner while Crowley finished setting things up on the upper floor. It had been ages since he’d cooked anything that _wasn’t_ a pastry, but pasta was simple enough, and salad, and…well, rather more dinner rolls than two beings needed, but he’d had more time than expected.

They ate and talked for hours, neither quite believing that they had done it, that they were in _their place._ Their _home._ Sometimes, Aziraphale would hold Crowley’s eyes a little too long and need to look away, waiting for his heart to settle down again.

He kept glancing around, unable to shake the feeling that something was wrong. That they were exposed, that someone was watching, that _something_ was about to happen, though he couldn’t say what. But no – only the long wooden table, the stone fireplace, the steps leading upstairs, dark carpet on pale wood.

He shivered anyway.

“Alright, Angel?”

 _Breathe,_ Aziraphale told himself and took another sip of wine. All night, his feet and his knees had brushed Crowley’s under the table. It was daring, and thrilling, and more than a little terrifying.

“Perfectly fine, Crowley.” The bread rolls had gone cool hours ago, but Aziraphale reached for one anyway, tugging at it with his fingers. “I was wondering what…what you…planned to do? Once we’re all unpacked and such?”

They should have discussed it more. Wasn’t that what humans did? Spend weeks and months talking about what sort of home they want, what sort of life, dreaming of what _moving in together_ will be like. Making sure their dreams matched up, their expectations.

They didn’t buy cottages – in the middle of a forest, no less, half a mile from the nearest village – without considering questions of…of hobbies, and use of space and…and living arrangements. They certainly didn’t take such a step without…defining their relationships.

Three weeks. Six thousand years and then some of dancing around certain emotions, certain thoughts, and somehow Aziraphale had thought _three weeks_ was enough time to plan such a drastic change?

“The garden.” Crowley nodded towards the window, but the sun had gone down and all either of them could see was his reflection. “Plenty needs to be cleared out. Maybe lay a new path. And the planting – not a lot of options for fall blooms, but some of the best spring flowers should be planted now.”

“Where would you start?”

Crowley tapped his fingers on the table. “Have to see what that garden shop in the village has. Tulip bulbs for certain, they need time to settle in before the cold. Daffodils or geraniums. Scilla, crocus, maybe fritillaria. Snowdrops, I think.”

“That all sounds…” Aziraphale glanced at the potted plants in the windows and the corners, the remnants of Crowley’s flat. All were tall, lush, and unvaryingly green. “Sounds very colourful.”

“Thinking of experimenting.” Crowley shrugged. “It’s a challenge. They need different soils, different amounts of sunlight, different watering schedules. And you always have to be thinking about the next season, and the next.”

“Seems like a great deal of work.”

“Only if the flowers try to be disobedient brats.” Crowley shifted his fork around his empty plate. “Might get some more trees, too. S’a good time to plant saplings.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale smiled just a little. “Apple trees?”

“Well… _maybe,”_ Crowley grudgingly admitted, with that particular frown that was also a sort of smile. “Pears, too.”

“It would be nice to have some fresh fruit next fall.”

“Nah. Takes years for the trees to be ready, maybe a decade.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale glanced out the window now himself, trying to remember what the garden looked like. They really should have spent more time preparing, studying, _learning_ the ins and outs of this cottage. A few days of feverishly sketched plans over bottles of wine. Hardly anything at all. “Well. I suppose I’ll be buying my fruit from the market, then. A few trees might be nice, eventually, though. If you’re willing to put in the work.”

“Nmmmh.” Crowley arched his back until it popped. “Speaking of _hard manual labor,_ I think it’s bedtime.”

Aziraphale’s head whipped back around. “What? What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Crowley pushed to his feet, “I’ve been moving two-stone boxes of books all day and we’re not even half done. You want to order me around again tomorrow, I need some _sleep_ first.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale’s stomach turned to ice. His eyes flicked to the stairs, remembering how he’d rushed down them to start on dinner that afternoon. “Oh, I – I – I, you know, I still have to – to clean all the dishes and – and pots and pans – there’s so much to do…”

The tall, dark form rounded the table quicker than he expected, and Aziraphale tensed – but Crowley merely stepped behind his chair and gently kissed the back of his head. “Take your time, Aziraphale.”

“I…” He shredded the bread roll in his hands. “I…think you…you’ll regret saying that.”

“Never. I mean it.” One more kiss, quick pressure on the back of his head. “Take all the time you need.” He squeezed Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Good night, Angel.”

The stairs creaked under his feet as he went up without another word.

On the second night, Aziraphale served mushroom risotto. It wasn’t the only thing he’d cooked that day – he’d been secluded in the kitchen since before Crowley rose, trying every challenging recipe he could think of. The bins were filled with burnt croissants and raw beef and a baked Alaska that had gone horribly wrong.

“You planning to cook that much every day?” was all Crowley asked, as they settled back in their seats after dinner. “You could probably feed the whole village with all that.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale glanced guiltily at the kitchen. “I suppose…I mean, it certainly fills the time, doesn’t it?”

Crowley tossed his head, the way he did when he was thinking, and his growing hair swirled around him in a red cloud. “I mean, yes, I suppose it does. But. Is that what you want? To fill time?”

“I’m not sure what else there is to do,” Aziraphale said. “Not much of a theater scene out here, no museums, no restaurants, no customers.”

“Do you miss the city?” He asked it a little too fast, and Aziraphale’s stomach clenched with even more guilt.

“No, dear, of course not. I just…well, I’ve been there so long…I’ve rather forgotten what there is to do out in the country. But I know I must keep myself busy.”

“Only if you like.” Crowley turned his plate. “We should be done with the big items tomorrow. I’ll be able to start the garden and…just, do whatever makes you happy, alright?”

They continued for hours. They seemed to have run out of the excitement of yesterday’s conversation, and now alternated between awkward chatter and pauses so long, Aziraphale feared they’d run out of things to talk about and would remain silent forever.

Finally, Crowley stood. “Better get some sleep,” he said, stretching.

“Oh! Is it – is it really that late?” Aziraphale glanced at the clock in a panic. “Oh, drat, there was, you know, so much more I meant to do today.” Crowley started walking around the table. “I – I – I mean, as you said, I wasted _quite_ a good deal of food, a few miracles ought to put it all back into its original state and – and perhaps I can donate—”

Crowley paused behind his chair, and kissed the back of his head. Aziraphale closed his eyes, trying to memorise it, the feel of Crowley’s lips and breath stirring his hair. They hadn’t _really_ decided if their new partnership would involve _kissing,_ or _hand holding,_ or…other things of that nature. They’d done a few anxious experiments, made rather more assumptions and…never really _articulated_ anything.

But this…Aziraphale thought he might like this.

“Good night, Angel.” A quick shoulder squeeze, and Crowley headed up, stairs creaking under every step.

On the fifth night, Aziraphale stopped making excuses. It was starting to feel silly, as Crowley never acknowledged them anyway. When Crowley rose from the table, he simply said, “Pleasant dreams, my dear.”

“Always.” A quick kiss to the back of the head. “Good night, Angel.”

By the tenth night, nearly everything had been unpacked and put into some semblance of order.

They’d spent two hours rearranging Aziraphale’s armchairs, carrying them up and down the stairs as he decided which would go in the study, which in the living room. When Aziraphale was satisfied, Crowley had gone outside, leaving him to rearrange his books in peace.

Aziraphale soon discovered that, with the window open, he could hear the sound of footsteps in the garden, of spade into earth, of a grumbling, threatening lecture delivered to each sapling before it was lowered into its new permanent spot. It was a comfortable sort of background noise, and Aziraphale smiled as he worked.

There was a second door on the upper floor, across the hall from his study. Aziraphale did his best not to glance at it all throughout the day.

After supper, they moved into the sitting room, Crowley sprawling on the sofa, Aziraphale comfortable in his favorite armchair. They talked, glanced at each other, smiled. Crowley played with his mobile phone while Aziraphale flipped idly through a book.

“How was the village?” Aziraphale wondered, since Crowley had finally made it out to the plant shop.

“S’alright. They’ve got a bakery you’d like. And the market.”

“Mmmm.” They’d visited a thousand villages and towns together through the years, yet somehow the thought of walking together through _this one in particular_ made Aziraphale feel cold.

“Whenever you’re ready.”

He wasn’t sure when that might be.

They sat in silence for a little while longer. At least Aziraphale no longer worried it would last forever.

When the demon abruptly stood up, Aziraphale’s fingers only twitched a little, curling around the pages of his book. “Well, that’s it for me tonight.”

“Of course.” He stared fixedly at the page. “Have a good rest.”

“I will.” A kiss on top of the head, almost absent in its familiarity. “Good night, Angel.”

On the twenty-third night, Aziraphale waited for the _Good night, Angel,_ then grabbed Crowley’s hand, a little too fast, perhaps. Studied it. Crowley had been in the garden all day, and the dirt was still there in the beds of his nails, his hair probably thick with sweat. Aziraphale rolled Crowley’s hand over, studying the lines, the shapes of his fingers, the length of his palm.

Finally, he gave it a squeeze. “Good night, Crowley.”

Perhaps there was something more he should do. Kiss the knuckles. Brush them against his cheek. _Something._

But it all seemed so… _much._

Every night, then, he simply gave Crowley’s hand a squeeze, and received a smile in return.

The thirty-second night, they returned to the cottage late. The weather had been just right for a walk through the woods, which had turned into a walk to the village, followed by dinner at the little restaurant, and ultimately Aziraphale trading recipes with the chef over a glass of wine.

Crowley had waited patiently, almost-smiling, and they’d finally started the walk back under the stars.

“Did you have fun?” Crowley asked, walking beside him, one hand in his pocket, the other dangling between them. “The walk? The village?”

“I suppose.” Aziraphale conceded. “I must try this _squash au vin_ recipe soon. And it is…rather pleasant out here.”

“Yeah?”

Aziraphale was suddenly very aware of the forest, the brilliant stars, and his proximity to Crowley. “Hmmm. But I’d like to get back and finish reading, if you don’t mind. Rather a lot of lost...reading time.”

“Yeah.” Crowley tucked his loose hand into his pocket.

Aziraphale didn’t read, though, when they returned. He held a book on his lap as they sipped wine, talking about places they’d visited through the years. Then Crowley mentioned that time they’d run into each other at a performance by Mozart – one bottle of wine turned into three – and a great deal of reminiscing ensued.

When, more than a little after midnight, Crowley finally stood to head upstairs, he paused to give Aziraphale’s forehead a clumsy kiss. “Night, Angel.”

Aziraphale gave his hand an easy squeeze, and they smiled at each other without restraint. “Good night, dear.”

On the forty-eighth night, Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand and didn’t let go.

He wasn’t sure why. They had a rhythm now, a pattern, something _sustainable._

Almost sustainable.

Aziraphale still never went upstairs after dark, still never looked at the door across from his study.

On some level, he knew what he needed to do.

They both waited, countless seconds, for the other to speak. But Aziraphale had lost his voice, and Crowley’s expression was as masked behind the glasses as it had been for many centuries.

The cottage was utterly silent, except for the ticking of the clock.

“Yes. Well.” Aziraphale swallowed. “Good night, dear.”

“Good night, Angel,” Crowley said for the second time, and Aziraphale finally relinquished his hand, heart racing.

But on the fiftieth night, fingers wrapped tightly around Crowley’s, on the fiftieth night, Aziraphale stood up, on the fiftieth night he let Crowley lead him up the stairs. He trailed slightly behind, hand clutching the bannister as they ascended, noticing how much _heavier_ the creaks were under his own feet.

At the top of the stairs, Crowley turned right, away from the study, and pushed open the _other_ door, the one Aziraphale could never quite bring himself to walk through, and—

The bedroom was just as they’d arranged it, fifty days before. Heavy red curtains, cream area rug over dark wood, bed in the center of one wall, an end table on either side.

The tartan pillow still lay at a skewed angle, exactly where Aziraphale had dropped it when the sudden panic took him, the sudden realisation of _what they were doing,_ and it was all too much, too fast, and good lord, here he was again, _what was he thinking?_

Crowley led him to the left side of the bed, the side nearest the door, with black pillowcases and the down duvet slightly rumpled. Pulled his glasses off, and at the first sight of golden eyes, Aziraphale pulled back, eyes slamming shut, hand clenching, seizing up. Crowley snapped his fingers—

Then, for a long time, nothing happened.

Aziraphale finally, cautiously opened his eyes, to find Crowley in black pyjamas, watching him.

When Aziraphale _nearly_ met his gaze, Crowley half-smiled, leaned forward, and kissed his cheek. “Good night, Angel.”

Crowley dropped his hand and climbed under the duvet.

But Aziraphale stood stock still. Now that he was _here_ what was he supposed to _do?_ Fifty days and nights, he should have had a _plan_ but here he was, still just as afraid as the day they’d arrived.

Crowley’s voice, a little rough, with that curious burr in it: “S’alright, Aziraphale. Take your time.”

“But…But it’s already been…” He looked around the room, the one room they’d discussed all night in his bookshop, all the papers they needed to buy their cottage piled on the desk between them. The room they’d breathlessly planned, whispers escaping uncertain lips and bright red faces.

It certainly _looked_ as though it had been planned by two drunken fools with no idea what to do with a cottage, the most atrociously mismatched combination of colours and styles.

But it was all here. The little shelf to hold his favorite books, the electric kettle for if he wanted tea in the night. The overstuffed rocking chairs by the largest window, overlooking the corner of the garden with the little duck pond. The planters lining the rest of the windows, filled with sweet-smelling herbs. The record player, Crowley’s awful music already organised in the stand below it while Aziraphale’s awaited him in a box nearby.

It was a jumble, a mess, it was everything that represented their _life_ together.

And he wanted this life. He truly did. But it had all come too quickly, too suddenly, he wasn’t _ready—_

“Aziraphale.” Their eyes finally met. “Don’t worry. Take all the time you need.”

He hung his head, burning with shame. “I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be.” He could _feel_ Crowley watching him, but didn’t dare look up. “I…I mean, look. There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

After several more breaths, Aziraphale gathered his courage, stepped forward, and pulled the duvet up to Crowley’s chin. Bent down, lips hovering just shy of Crowley’s forehead, his breath stirring crimson strands. “Good night, dear.” His courage broke, and he fled the room, pulling the door shut behind him.

“Good night, Angel,” muffled but still as gentle as ever.


	2. The Next Fifty Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale has brought himself to enter the bedroom, but he still has a long way to go.

On the fifty-first night, Aziraphale followed Crowley upstairs again.

As before, they held hands up the stairs, a loose clasp of palm against palm. As before, Crowley miracled up a pair of pyjamas, kissed Aziraphale’s cheek, and climbed into bed with a sleepy, “Good night, Angel.”

Aziraphale fussed with the duvet a little longer, smoothing it over Crowley’s shoulder, then stooped, pushing back a fringe of bright red hair. He was right; the hair was thick with sweat after a day of working in the sun, but it wasn’t unpleasant. He leaned a little closer to smell the sweat and earth on Crowley’s brow and, before he could talk himself out of it, pressed a kiss just under Crowley’s hairline.

“G…good night,” Aziraphale managed in a rushed breath, turning to go.

On the fifty-second night, Aziraphale lingered for a few minutes, running his fingers through Crowley’s hair. It was tangled, and he worried the knots would hurt Crowley, but the demon simply sighed and relaxed a little more heavily against the pillow.

On the fifty-third night, Crowley wriggled a bit as he climbed into bed, moving just a little towards the center. He didn’t say anything, or gesture, or call attention to the movement in any way.

Still, it took until the fifty-fifth night for Aziraphale to work up the courage to settle himself on the edge of the mattress, stroking Crowley’s hair until he fell asleep.

He marveled, for a little while, at how his demon looked, so still, so quiet, face relaxed, burrowed so deep under the blanket that very little remained to be seen. It was strange, all those long limbs, stilled and compacted and hidden under a thick down duvet. He imagined his own wing covering Crowley instead, and Aziraphale’s face suddenly burned with a pulsing heat, and he rushed from the room.

Crowley didn’t even stir.

Beginning on the fifty-sixth night, Aziraphale sat on the sofa. At the far end, with as much space between them as possible, but nevertheless on the sofa. Crowley smiled, shifted his feet so they took up less space, a more compact sprawl.

Starting on the fifty-seventh night, Crowley sat upright in the other corner of the sofa. He scrolled through his mobile as they chatted, right hand resting lightly on the cushions between them. Aziraphale thought about putting his own hand down as well. He thought about it quite a lot.

On the sixty-fourth night, Aziraphale began organising his music collection while Crowley slept, humming softly to himself. On the sixty-eighth, he started bringing in selected books.

Now and again, he’d pause in his work, to make sure Crowley was still asleep. Adjust his blanket. Push the hair away from his eyes.

More than once he caught himself simply standing there, staring.

But whenever he finished his task for the night, Aziraphale retreated back downstairs and waited with a cup of tea until Crowley rose again in the morning.

On the seventieth night, he took Crowley’s hand as they sat on the sofa, no longer at opposite ends, but not quite close enough for their shoulders to brush. He glanced out from under his eyelashes – _is this alright? –_ and without looking up from his mobile phone, Crowley gave his fingers a warm squeeze.

After an hour or so, he lifted Crowley’s hand to rest on his book, nudging his fingers apart. Tracing his own fingertips up and down the lines of Crowley’s palm, memorising them, mesmerised by them.

Crowley didn’t say a word, except to point out a series of pictures he’d discovered on his mobile. He grinned expectantly.

“It _appears_ to be a cartoon. No, two cartoons cut and glued together. Look, they altered the caption, terrible job.”

“It’s a _meme,_ Angel. It’s a _joke.”_

“Ah.” Aziraphale squinted at the fancy telephone. “Is the joke that the cartoon no longer makes sense? Some sort of Dadaist nonsense?”

“Nnnnh, you aren’t _wrong,”_ Crowley conceded, returning to whatever he’d been doing.

His hand hadn’t moved. Uncertainly, Aziraphale pressed his own palm to Crowley’s, and the long fingers curled up to interlock with his.

Aziraphale smiled and let their hands rest on the sofa between them.

He followed Crowley upstairs, fingers still twined, palms pressed tightly together so that surely Crowley could _feel_ his heart racing.

This time, when Crowley climbed under the covers, Aziraphale selected a book from his now-filled bookcase, and tried to approach the bed, the _right_ side of the bed, the one with tartan pillow still lying where he’d dropped it. Every step was slower than the one before, until trepidation froze him, half a meter shy of his goal.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley watched him, golden eyes as unreadable as the glasses he usually wore.

“I thought…I thought…this might be…more comfortable. I can…sit on this side. As you – as you fall asleep.” There. Words spoken. It was out in the world.

“It’s an awful lot for one day,” Crowley commented, still not stirring. “Don’t rush yourself.”

He commanded his feet to take another step forward. “I’ve put it off rather a long time already, haven’t I?” Another step, knees now just shy of the mattress. “I’ve…forced you to wait…”

“You haven’t forced me to do anything. You never have.” Aziraphale stared at the crooked pillow, the slightly rumpled line of the duvet. “Angel. Look at me.” He glanced up, and now Crowley’s eyes weren’t blank at all, and that made this _even harder._ “I’m not…not _waiting_ for anything. There isn’t some, I don’t know, some _destination_ we have to race towards. There isn’t any endgame here. There’s just you, and me. What we have…this life…it’s enough. Whatever _you_ want, whatever you’re comfortable with, it’s enough. Don’t _ever_ feel like you have to – to be anything other than what you are.”

“I just…” Aziraphale’s eyes fell on the bed, and he stared at it so long he wondered why it didn’t catch fire. “I just want you to be happy.”

“I am. Aziraphale, I am already as happy as I know how to be.”

Blinking tears from his eyes, Aziraphale reached out. Took the pillow that he had dropped seventy days before. Shook it out and placed it neatly against the headboard.

Then he placed the book on the bed in front of it.

“There, that…that should keep…another day or two.” He bit his lip. “That’s…that’s _quite_ enough for one night.”

He circled around the bed and felt a strange rush of relief to arrive on the left side again. To perch on the edge of the mattress, as he already had so many times. Crowley sat up to kiss his cheek, as always, but this time let his lips rest a moment longer, his nose brush the side of Aziraphale’s. “Good night,” he whispered, and for once it sounded almost like a promise, a blessing, inasmuch as a demon could bless. “Angel.”

Then he flopped back onto his pillow, as dramatic as ever.

“Good night, dear.” Aziraphale tugged the blankets smooth and ran his fingers through Crowley’s hair.

“Mmmh,” Crowley purred, leaning into his fingers, eyes drifting shut. “Hey, Aziraphale?”

“Y-yes?” They almost never spoke after saying good night.

“You want to tell me about your book?”

“What?” He glanced furtively at the other side of the bed. “The one I…”

But Crowley’s eyelids didn’t even flicker. “You read about twenty this week. Whichever you like.”

“Oh.” His fingers scratched a little deeper into the sweat-thick mane of hair. Aziraphale had decided he _liked_ the way Crowley’s hair felt at the end of a day in the gardens. The texture. The smell. “Well. Er. I suppose. There is one you might like. Ah. It starts in the French Revolution—”

“Hang on.” The tiniest line of gold appeared in one eye. “Is someone gonna rescue someone else from the guillotine? _Dramatically?”_

“Yes.” Aziraphale tried to hide a smile. “Quite definitely.”

“Good. Proceed.”

“Where was I? Ah, yes. Paris. The teeming masses of humanity…”

On the seventy-third night, Aziraphale finally worked up the courage to slide onto the right side of the bed. Still fully dressed, still over the covers. Still a little awkward, as if he might change his mind and run.

He nearly did, when Crowley rose to kiss the side of his head. It seemed so much more alarming when done…well… _in bed._ But then he dropped down, red hair spilling across a black pillow, and wriggled under the blankets.

“Night, Angel,” he yawned, sounding even more tired than usual. They’d spent most of the afternoon exploring the paths through the woods and Aziraphale had – twice – briefly taken his hand.

“Good night, dear.” The words tumbled out without a thought. “Er. Crowley. Don’t you…usually sleep facing the door?”

Crowley blinked, which was rare enough, and glanced over his shoulder in confusion. When he turned back, his brow was furrowed. “Don’t be daft. I sleep facing you.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale didn’t know what to make of that. “Oh.” Crowley _had_ rolled over a few times, in previous weeks, as Aziraphale moved around the bedroom setting things up. He’d never thought anything of it, but, yes, Crowley had always turned to face the side of the room Aziraphale stood on, like a daisy tracking the sun. _“Oh.”_

_“Oh,”_ Crowley mocked, but not cruelly. He closed his eyes and settled down. “What are you reading?”

“Ah.” Aziraphale glanced at the book he’d taken off the shelf several nights before. _“Kinder- und Hausemärchen.”_

“Uh…”

“The, ah, the Brothers Grimm.” He turned the pages idly. “Would you like me to…read it to you?”

A wide, toothy grin spread across his narrow face. “Only if you promise to do the voices.”

Smiling back, Aziraphale reached across and tucked some hair behind Crowley’s ear. “The first is the Frog Prince…”

That first night in bed, the seventy-third in the cottage, Aziraphale read a few stories, then quietly left once Crowley was asleep. He paused in the doorway and, sure enough, the demon turned over to face him without waking.

On the seventy-fifth night, he kept reading long after Crowley had fallen asleep.

On the seventy-ninth night, he stayed until after midnight.

On the eighty-third night (or very early on the eighty-fourth morning, but it was dark until well after breakfast this time of year), he put aside the book, and just watched Crowley sleep, without shyness, without fear.

On the eighty-seventh night, he noticed Crowley’s hand emerging from the blankets, and idly reached across to trace its lines once more. He tugged it towards him, thinking perhaps to hold it as he continued reading, but Crowley immediately moved, wriggling across the bed to press against Aziraphale’s hip.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale called in alarm. “What are you…”

“Nrrgh,” Crowley muttered, and let out a noise almost like a snore.

This was most unusual. But it wasn’t _bad._

That night, Aziraphale let Crowley press against him for almost an hour before gently disentangling himself and leaving.

On the eighty-eighth night, he let it go on a little longer.

On the ninety-fourth night, he lost all track of time, and barely slipped out of the room before Crowley woke up. It occurred to him, as he went down the stairs, that perhaps…perhaps he didn’t _need_ to leave?

The ninety-fifth night in Aziraphale and Crowley’s cottage, winter arrived; perhaps not according to the calendar, but certainly by the weather. Warm jumpers emerged from nowhere, and Crowley grumbled that all his had tartan trim, then blushed to see Aziraphale’s embroidered with a tiny snake coiled into a heart.

Cold seeped in through the walls, but not in an unpleasant way. Aziraphale tried out a new soup recipe, and Crowley spent over an hour insisting he could light the fire the _human_ way, before finally giving up and agreeing to a miracle.

That night, when Aziraphale tugged at his sleeping demon’s hand, Crowley looped an arm over his legs, pulling closer, seeking warmth.

When the angel finally convinced himself to slip away, he tucked his pillow under Crowley’s arm. He paused in the doorway to watch as Crowley rolled over to face towards him, chin still resting on the tartan pillow.

On the ninety-ninth night, the snow arrived. It was early; Crowley had complained all evening that he’d barely managed to get the garden settled for the winter; the greenhouse would have to wait until next year, and he seemed at a bit of a loss what to do with himself until the ground thawed. He shivered a bit – despite the warm fire – and Aziraphale squeezed his hand as they sat.

By the time they climbed into bed, the wind was roaring, whistling around the eaves and rattling the windowpanes. Aziraphale smoothed the blankets, settled atop them, then held out his arm indicating, somewhat indirectly, the space beside him.

“You, uh…you sure?”

“You’re cold, aren’t you?” 

Crowley shrugged, but didn’t say anything.

Aziraphale smiled encouragingly. “Yes, dear. I’m sure.”

It was…not the same as when his demon pressed against him in the night. Crowley seemed to coil, twisting arms and legs, trying a hundred positions in a matter of seconds. Finally settled for having his head on Aziraphale’s lap, limbs twined all around him in an inextricable Gordian knot.

“S’good?”

It was _almost_ perfect, except that somehow one of Aziraphale’s hands had become entwined with Crowley’s and the other was already burying itself in his hair. How was he ever supposed to hold a book like this?

But, it occurred to him, he didn’t actually _want_ his book right now, not when the sight before him was so captivating.

“This is…yes. Jolly good. Ehem. Good night, Crowley dear.”

“G’night, Angel.” He wriggled even closer. Not wriggled. There was a word for this. _Cuddled._ It made Aziraphale’s heart flutter in his chest. “Nh. Aziraphale?” He sounded a little embarrassed.

“What is it?”

“Last couple mornings I’ve, uh…I woke up holding your pillow.”

“I…I know, dear.” Even if the actions were coming more easily, it was still so _hard_ to put it into words. “The last, um, the last few nights you’ve been…reaching. For me. Moving closer. I felt, well, like you should…have something…when I left?”

“Mmrrrrrgh,” Crowley groaned, burying his face into Aziraphale’s thighs. “M’sorry.”

“What on earth do _you_ have to be sorry for?”

“Didn’t ask.” He shrugged, a rather complicated gesture from this position. “’Nd. I told you I didn’t want anything more. Thought it was true. But I guess. Sometimes, it’s not?”

For the first time in ninety-nine nights, Aziraphale realised this might be as difficult for Crowley as it was for him. Of course he’d failed to notice. After all, he was a foolish, self-centred angel, hardly a thought for anyone but himself.

Instead of feeling guilty, though, Aziraphale felt…strangely relieved.

He leaned down to kiss the top of Crowley’s head. It was a bit of a stretch – he felt it in his back – but completely worth it. “Don’t worry about it, darling. Just sleep.”

On the hundredth morning, Aziraphale stood framed in the bedroom door, looking at the way Crowley held the tartan pillow, limbs in a complicated death grip that still managed to be extraordinarily gentle.

When the demon’s eyes fluttered open, Aziraphale lifted the mug he held, miracled to exactly the right temperature. “Coffee, dear?” he asked, heart throbbing in anticipation of the smile.

The snow had fallen more than knee-deep, and Crowley spent an hour clearing snow off the delicate branches of the saplings, shoveling the garden walkway, breath steaming in the wind, until Aziraphale emerged from the cottage and wrapped a black-and-red scarf around his neck, engulfing him from the bottom of his glasses to the top of his jacket.

“Let’s go for a walk, dear.”

“Can’t,” Crowley grunted. “Gotta make a path first.”

“No, you don’t.” Aziraphale stepped onto piled-up snow, and walked across the top of it, light as a cat.

“Well, not all of us are angels.” But Aziraphale could guess from the tone of his voice that the scarf hid a smile.

“You know, Crowley, if you hold my hand, you won’t sink either.”

This time, not even scarf and glasses could hide the way Crowley’s face lit up. His hand slipped into Aziraphale’s as naturally as if it had always belonged there, and together they walked out of the garden and into a forest altered into an exotic, white-puffed land.

“I think I was wrong,” Aziraphale said, looking at the branches of a towering oak, laden with snow and dripping with ice.

“Haven’t sunk yet.”

“No, ages ago. When you talked about getting trees, and I wasn’t sure if it was worth waiting ten years for the fruit. But I think…you don’t get a tree for the fruit.”

Crowley considered this, brow furrowed. “You do if you’re growing an orchard.”

“Are you? Growing an orchard?”

“No…” He tossed his head, hand flying up to catch his knitted hat before it fell off. “Gotta say, no idea where you’re going with this.”

“I mean, you don’t plant a tree because it _might_ produce something you want, years down the road. You plant it because you want a tree. You want to see it bud in the spring, and sit in its shade in the summer, and watch the leaves change in the fall. You want to care for it, tend it as it grows, and then maybe – maybe – years later, you’ll also have apples to enjoy.”

“Hmmm.” Crowley swung their clasped hands with the next few steps. “Glad I didn’t wait for you to come around. It’s far too late to plant trees now.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Yes, I’m sure you knew that all along. That’s why _you’re_ the gardener.”

“Better remember that if we ever need to infiltrate a mansion again.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale said airily. “Next time, you can be the gardener, and I’ll be the driver.”

Crowley gasped, Aziraphale giggled, and they walked in silence a few more minutes.

“And you know,” the angel finally said, watching their feet pad across the snow without a trace. “It isn’t... _wrong_ to, I don’t know, to want a bit more from a young tree. To imagine how the blossoms will look, to wish you could sit under the branches and read. I think, you know, part of caring for something is...is anticipating how it will grow and...helping it along.”

“It wouldn’t be...hurrying things?”

“No, I don’t think so. You can enjoy the moment without ignoring the past and...the future.”

The path turned towards what should be a little hollow between the trees, now filled to the brim like a bowl of snow.

“Speaking of...you know...the future.” Crowley said, glancing at the branches interlaced over them. “Future of trees. I mean. If you want something that just looks nice, you get flowers. Tulips. Really pretty, last about five minutes. But a tree, that’s...a commitment. Something you want to share your garden with for centuries.” He stopped walking, turning slowly towards Aziraphale, face still hidden between glasses and scarf. Aziraphale looked up at him, heart pounding. “You know. Never had a tree before. Didn’t work with my lifestyle. But now…here…”

Aziraphale reached with both hands to lower Crowley’s scarf.

Unfortunately, the instant he let go of Crowley’s hand, the demon collapsed, legs buckling at the sudden lack of support, until he lay on his back, buried up to his neck in snow.

“Oh, dear!” Aziraphale fought down a smile. “Oh, Crowley I—” No, it was no good. Watching the now snow-covered demon struggle to sit up doubled Aziraphale over with laughter.

“Funny, am I?”

Aziraphale scrubbed at the tears in his eyes. “Yes. No. It’s just—”

The snowball hit him square in the face before he ever saw it coming. Aziraphale toppled like a tree, sinking deep into the snowdrift.

“Angel!” The sound of Crowley scrambling to his feet. “Blast, I thought you’d—"

“Ah, I see how it is.” Aziraphale sat more slowly, scraping the snow from his cheeks. “You have declared _war,_ Crowley.” He lifted his hands and piles of snow began to rise all around him, forming themselves into balls. “But I don’t think you’re truly prepared to face the wrath of the Guardian of Eden.”

That evening, they sat together on the sofa, Aziraphale’s head resting on Crowley’s shoulder. No books, no mobile phones, just a roaring fire, a thick blanket, and two cups of steaming hot chocolate.

Crowley had taken a hot shower after getting back inside, and Aziraphale was fascinated to see how his hair curled as it dried. Aziraphale had dithered a bit before miracling himself up a set of dry clothes – pyjamas, in fact, styled after Crowley’s, since the last time the angel had slept, loose nightgowns and caps had still been in fashion.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile like that,” Crowley whispered, turning his head slightly so his lips brushed across Aziraphale’s hair. “The way you did in the woods, I mean.”

“Nor I you.” He closed his eyes and tried to identify all the smells in Crowley’s bath soaps.

When the time came, Aziraphale was the first to stand.

He took his demon’s hand, led him up the stairs and to their bed. Walked around to his own side and lifted the blankets.

“Aziraphale…?”

“Yes, dear.” Everything inside him was bubbling, fluttering, rising up in his throat – but this was _good._ This was how Aziraphale _wanted_ to feel.

He slid beneath the blankets and rested his head on the pillow.

“Are you sure?” Crowley asked, lying on his side, their faces little more than a breath apart. His hand lay in the gap between them.

“I think we’ve both waited long enough.”

“Angel, I told you—”

Aziraphale surged forward, pressing his mouth to Crowley’s.

He hadn’t been sure what to expect. They’d kissed like this, once, long ago, a few days after the world had failed to end. Aziraphale couldn’t remember much, except that he’d been almost sick with nerves, and had pulled away almost immediately. This time was different.

Crowley’s lips were... _softer_ like this than they were against his head or his cheek. And his mouth tingled so much more. In a good way. A very good way. Aziraphale was already starting on a second kiss, tipping his head slightly, when he realised Crowley still hadn’t moved.

Scrambling back - face burning - Aziraphale tugged at the duvet. “I...I’m sorry...did I...get it wrong? I thought…”

Before he could say another word, Crowley’s mouth covered his, warm and welcoming, Crowley’s hand slid up his arm, Crowley’s leg hooked over his knee. Aziraphale leaned into it, hands clutching the black pyjamas, until he was completely and utterly _surrounded_ by Crowley.

This was it. This was _home._ This was the bliss, the acceptance, he’d never felt in Heaven, that had always been held just out of his reach, pulled away when he came close to grasping it, until he learned not to desire it at all…

Here, freely, openly given. Not just now, but over and over, every minute for a hundred days, for hundreds of _years,_ and a promise of more, on and on, into a future he couldn’t even imagine…

Crowley’s thumb brushed his cheek and suddenly the kiss vanished.

“Nrfgk.” Crowley pulled away, struggling to untangle himself. “S-sorry!”

“Ah…” Aziraphale tried to catch his breath. “What do...sorry?”

“Should have asked.” He pulled back to his own pillow, tugging it forward as if to make a barrier. “Look, I’m just - do you need me to go? I can wait downstairs until…”

Aziraphale pressed fingers to his cheek, where it still burned from Crowley’s touch, and found it was wet. His blinked through tear-filled eyes at the narrow, panicked face across from him and laughed. The long, loud laughter of a being that only breathed for the joy of it.

“Erf. Aziraphale?”

“You...you silly...ridiculous demon!” He scrubbed at his face, still laughing. “You absurd creature!” Aziraphale reached across the bed until he found Crowley’s hands and drew him closer, as he had so often at night, each time he brought Crowley to nestle against him. He slid across now, wide-eyed and wondering, to lay nose-to-nose once more. “I’m crying because I’m happy. Because I’m not afraid, I’m not...holding myself back, and it feels... _wonderful.”_

“Oh.” Crowley fidgeted. “Ah. So. Um.” His eyes flicked up to meet Aziraphale’s. “So you liked it? The kiss?”

He felt himself turning pink again as a smile spread across his lips. “Yes, I rather think I did. Er. Did you?”

“Yeah.” The grin stretched straight across Crowley’s face. “I did, I really, _really_ did. You, um,” he waggled his eyebrows in what was probably supposed to be a charming way. “You want to go again?”

“Oh, yes _please.”_

Aziraphale smiled so hard his cheeks hurt, which unfortunately made kissing quite difficult. They couldn’t push out their lips properly, or quite line up their mouths, their teeth managed to collide more than once. More laughter followed, and Aziraphale felt the strange, heady rush of Crowley’s laugh echoing in his own mouth, against his chest, filling him completely.

In the end they gave up on the kissing, and held each other, Aziraphale’s face buried in Crowley’s neck and shoulder, Crowley’s too-wide smile still pressing into curling silver hair.

The angel still felt embarrassed, but not ashamed, and the difference was marvelous. He didn’t regret his actions, he didn’t fear some unforeseen consequence. Here, in his demon’s embrace, he felt safe, confident. Very nearly sure of himself.

“So what, um…” Crowley’s mouth hovered by his ear. “What brought this on?”

“I don’t really know. It’s been coming on a long time. But…” Aziraphale wriggled back, just far enough to see Crowley’s face without leaving the circle of his arms. Somehow they’d managed to fit both their heads on the tartan pillow, though there was very little room to spare. Best to stay close. “Well. Partly it’s because of what you said last night.”

“Last night?” His brow furrowed in worry.

“About wanting more without knowing it. I...I rather think I’ve felt that way for centuries.” He tipped his head forward, until his brow rested against Crowley’s chin, and felt those lips press against his hairline. “And I realised...It’s not about you being patient with me, or me being brave for you, or anything of the kind. We’re...whatever we are, we’re learning it together. We’re here _together,_ and that’s...that’s what I want. That’s everything I want.”

“That’s…” Crowley swallowed, cleared his throat. “Yeah. Me too.” Cleared his throat again. “So, ah...now what?”

“Oh.” Aziraphale tilted his head back to give a sheepish grin. “I hadn’t really thought past, you know. The kissing.”

“Hmmmm.” Crowley lowered his head until their noses brushed. “I’m…actually not sure either.”

“You aren’t?” One more wriggle moved Aziraphale under Crowley’s chin, head resting against his heart. This felt right. Aziraphale tugged one of Crowley’s hands between them, running his fingers across the now-familiar lines and mounds. “Can we just…stay here for a bit?”

“Yeah. Sounds perfect, Angel.”

“And…in case it wasn’t clear…ah…I love you, Crowley.”

“Nk.” It was odd, to feel that tension – so familiar to Aziraphale – run through Crowley, to know exactly the way he must be panicking, stomach tight, heart shuddering. “I…glk…that’s…I…”

Aziraphale lifted their clasped hands and pressed his lips to Crowley’s fingers. “It’s alright, darling. Take as long as you need.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> I'd had the idea - ages ago, when we first learned about the hand-holding on the bus - to write a story that broke down the bus ride minute-by-minute, showing in almost slow motion the various emotions Aziraphale and Crowley went through, partially tracked by the bus's progress, partially by their grip on each other becoming first more anxious and panicked, then eventually more relaxed an natural.
> 
> It didn't work, mostly because...some author may be able to spend 5k on the internal journey of two beings who are barely moving or talking, but that author is not me. I was happy to find a home for the format in this fic, with Aziraphale slowly getting over his anxieties.
> 
> (My personal South Downs cottage headcanon is that they don't move there for many years after the Apocalypse, and likely keep their places in London, so that they can go back and forth. But I also have a soft spot for the idea of two dummies rushing into buying a home without ever stopping to consider what it means.)
> 
> Thank you to everyone who read - and to ArcticRose and Hapax for the beta reads, and Sosser86 for the general encouragement - please leave a comment if you enjoyed this!


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